


Pulling At The Seams

by Kawaiibooker



Series: More Ghosts Than People (one-shot) [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: (but no animal death), Angst, Blood and Injury, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 05:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17258585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: "Maybe they picked the wrong animal on the wrong day; maybe Arthur shouldn't have run his mouth before the job's done; maybe they should've just shot the fucking thing the old-fashioned way, holes in the pelt be damned, and maybe it would've all happened regardless."Charles is injured, Arthur helps.





	Pulling At The Seams

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed.
> 
> Written as a little gift for [Sharkflan](https://twitter.com/sharkflan), because their art gives me life!
> 
> It's in the tags but an extra warning just to make sure: This story references (past) physical child abuse.

Later, Arthur would be hard pressed to say when exactly things started to go wrong.

The sprawling meadows of the Big Valley were alive with the chatter of birds and the wind rustling through the tall grass. From where he's perched, a quick glance through his binoculars offered plenty of viable options to pursue: a herd of grazing deer here, there a bear meandering through the woods but it's the impressive arch of antlers that caught Arthur's attention.

“See that? Big stag, little ways upstream.”

“Mh, yeah.”

Charles met Arthur's gaze briefly before shortening his reins, bringing Taima's head up and alert. They set off without another word; time and experience made them move as one, Charles up front and Arthur covering his back, and it took but a few minutes to get into range. There's a lasso in Charles's hand, the one with the pale scar racing across its back.

Arthur thought nothing of it. They'd done this dozens of times before.

From one moment to the next, the horses shot forward, split up, Charles straight ahead and Arthur to the side as he mirrored the stag's sharp twists and turns, manipulated them in their favor. The rope flew, snagged against one of its horns. It pulled taught.

Arthur laughed, “That's what I'm talkin' about!”, patting his horse's damp neck in celebration. He trotted over to where Charles was bringing in their catch, grunting with effort as the stag shook its head harshly.

“I can already see the headlines: Charles Smith, famous cattleman, makin' the ladies _and_ the gents swoon with his cowboyin'–”

With an arm wrapped around its thick neck and a knife in his hand, Charles looked up and grinned, “You're so full of–”

And the stag lurched, one violent shove fueled by sheer desperation, and Arthur felt his heart stutter as the clawed ends of its antlers got dangerously close to–

Maybe they picked the wrong animal on the wrong day; maybe Arthur shouldn't have run his mouth before the job's done; maybe they should've just shot the fucking thing the old-fashioned way, holes in the pelt be damned, and maybe it would've all happened regardless.

One of the horns catches and Charles shouts, staggers back, hands on his face – and there's no room for _maybe_ in Arthur's head in that moment, just the thought of _no, not him_ that makes him jump out the saddle and rush towards him.

The stag almost runs into him, blind in its panic. Arthur lets it pass. “Charles”, he breathes, stomach turning at the blood that starts seeping between Charles's trembling fingers. He reaches for him.

“Charles, hey–”

Charles flinches, honest-to-God stumbles away from his touch with a noise so afraid it sears itself into Arthur's memory forever; Arthur just stares at the way his arms raise jerkily, his broad shoulders hunching and pulling inwards–

Understanding crashes into him like a runaway train, brutal and without mercy. Charles is protecting his face and making himself small and Arthur's heart clenches in his chest because he _recognizes_ this.

It's too-loud voices and the sound of breaking glass; it's squeezing into nooks and crannies too narrow for even a child to fit in; it's nursing bruises and aches in the small hours of the morning, biting his lip until the tears stop coming and he tries to piece himself together to face the next day.

“Charles, I–”, Arthur forces himself to swallow, his voice dry and cracking right down the middle. “I ain't gonna hurt you. Just– Let me help, please.”

Charles's breathing comes in harsh gasps, too quick to be anything but panicked. He doesn't react, and Arthur knows better than to press him when he's like this – he stays just where is instead, locked in place with his hands hanging slack and useless by his sides and his eyes fixed on the fabric of Charles's sleeves that goes from blue to dark red.

An entire lifetime passes in what must've been a few moments. Arthur's voice is calm and even, “You're safe”, he tells him, “Breathe for me?”, and something in his chest gives when Charles _tries._

Another lifetime until Charles as much as glances at him. Arthur smiles a wobbly smile for him.

“'s just me, big guy. Just wanna help. You okay with me comin' a bit closer? You're bleedin' something fierce, there.”

Charles nods slowly, rasps, “Arthur”, his voice a hoarse mess and so vulnerable. “I...”

“It's okay. Let's fix you up first, alright?”

Arthur keeps his hands where Charles can see them, palms up, fingers relaxed. His steps are muffled by dead leaves and moss, only the occasional snap of a twig making Charles tense. “Just me”, he repeats, softer now that they're close. “Lemme see?”

The hesitation behind every move Charles makes breaks Arthur's heart, pure and simple, but he lowers his arms and Arthur pushes the anger roiling in his guts into the furthest corner of his mind. “There he is”, he whispers, an echo of better days; Charles exhales in one shaky breath and closes his eyes, leans into the brush of Arthur's fingers against his jaw.

His cheek is torn up pretty badly, a long gash that runs along the curve of his cheek bone to his ear. Arthur isn't a praying man yet he sends a wordless thank you to any god who will listen with how close it got to taking out his eye.

“Could be worse but it'll need some stitches”, Arthur concludes quietly and Charles nods again, horribly subdued. “Strawberry ain't too far, if we go now we might–”

There's pain in Charles's expression, sudden and visceral. He mumbles Arthur's name like a plea, desperate and so small, and Arthur feels the sting of tears in his eyes, knows that cut on his face has the least bit to do with it.

“Talk to me, baby, please. Tell me what you need an' I'll make it happen.”

Charles swallows, heavily. He takes Arthur's hand, squeezing too tightly with blood-slick fingers. “No one else. Just you.”

“Okay.” Arthur nods, lifts his hand to kiss his knuckles, feather-soft. “Okay.”

*

It takes longer than Arthur'd like to admit to clean the wound and sew it shut. Part of it is his inexperience with this, his fingers stiff and clumsy around the needle; more importantly, he's trying to keep his movements slow and predictable even after Charles's eyes clench shut half-way through and remain that way until he finishes.

Arthur places a careful hand on his knee, then. “All done.” Even with the gash tended to, Charles's cheek looks swollen and tender. Arthur wets a towel with what remains in his waterskin and holds it out to him. “Here.”

“Thanks”, Charles mumbles, wincing as he presses it under his eye.

A few minutes pass where none of them say anything. Arthur is keenly aware that Charles hasn't looked at him once since he sat him down and told him to hold still, and well... There's nothing he can do about that either.

Thus Arthur gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and makes to set up camp. The horses returned an hour or so after the stag sent them scattering into the trees; Arthur talks to them in hushed tones as he puts on their halters for the night and gives them their dinner. With a few cans worth of food from their packs, he sets about making their own, aiming for a simple stew. Something warm to give comfort in ways he can't, not right now.

He's humming under his breath, more to steady his own hands than anything else, and thus doesn't hear Charles approach until he steps into the firelight with wringing hands and uncertainty written all across his face. “Hey.”

Almost faint with relief, Arthur gives it a valiant try to stay where he is, to listen to the mantra of _give him space_ in his head. “Want some?”, he asks instead and there's a fragile touch to his voice that has no business sounding so hopeful.

Charles just looks at him like he's seeing Arthur clearly for the first time – a myriad of emotions flicker in his eyes like flames in the night, and with a stumbling beat in his chest Arthur realizes Charles is letting him see him in turn, bared heart and bared scars.

The filled bowl is taken out of his hands. Charles sits beside him, legs crossed and knees close enough to brush Arthur's. The crackling of burning wood keeps the silence at bay. They eat.

Eventually, Charles says, “It was a long time ago”, quietly; Arthur looks up, watches the muscles in his jaw twitch as he fights the words on his tongue.

“Who? Who did...?”

It shouldn't matter, it really shouldn't – but with how rough Charles's voice sounds, how even now his fingers haven't quite stopped trembling, he needs to know. There might be thousands of miles between Arthur and whoever dared to put that expression on Charles's face but he would cross every single one on foot to make sure it'll never happen again.

“My father.” He tilts his head down and to the side; the fire's warm glow spills across his profile, illuminating the wounds there both old and new. “Got angry over a broken plate”, he taps the lightning scar over his jaw, “gave me this.”

Arthur feels vaguely sick. He inhales slowly. “Is he–”

“Dead?” Charles huffs, a joyless sound. “Should be, at the rate he was drinking. Didn't stick around long enough to find out.”

“Charles...”

Arthur stops himself, swallows the promises of vengeance he wants to make. Catching Charles's gaze, he finally asks:

“Are you okay?”

Charles snorts softly, _stupid question, Morgan_ , his eyes say and Arthur smiles a little, shrugging.

“No, but... I will be. Someday it'll be just another scar, y'know?”

This time, when Arthur reaches for him, Charles meets him half-way, intertwining their fingers; there's infinite gentleness in that gesture, something that Arthur now recognizes as a choice Charles is willing to make in spite of the sharp edges of his past.

This time, when he presses a kiss to where they're joined, he vows to keep that choice safe, for as long as he can draw breath.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep wondering where Charles got his scar from and the game mentions that his father was a drunk so I thought, what if?
> 
> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker)


End file.
